


Means to an End (Not a Love Affair)

by Jolie_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Danger Night, Drama, Drug Abuse, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene, Mycroft Being Creepy, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Screenplay/Script Format, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, still canon compliant after season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is still out there. Mycroft Holmes is seething. And John Watson, who got himself dumped, fired and almost blown up all in a single week, decides to go away for a couple of days. Sometimes a small stone is enough to set off an avalanche. </p><p>A danger night, set in the aftermath of “The Great Game”. Rated M for a graphic depiction of drug abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place three days after the Pool confrontation with Moriarty at the end of “The Great Game”. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: There are two versions of this story. Nine tenths of them are identical (such as the entire first chapter). But while this one stays firmly on the rails of canonical gen fic, [the other one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2394131/chapters/5290949) goes a whole step further and derails into Johnlock, and not of the tender and loving sort, either. I couldn’t make up my mind which version was the one that really happened, so I’m posting both. If you’re not into slash and particularly not into the dysfunctional sort, PLEASE stick with this version, don’t read the other, and don’t think worse of me.

_JOHN: Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?_   
_MYCROFT: No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John._   
_JOHN: I’ve got plans._   
_MYCROFT: No._

_(“A Scandal in Belgravia”)_

* * *

**_221b Baker Street. The Living room._ ** _Evening. It is dark outside, and the lights are on. Sherlock Holmes, in a white shirt and his camel-coloured dressing-gown, is sitting at his computer at the dining table. Footsteps can be heard coming up the stairs in a hurry, and John Watson strides in purposefully through the open door, his phone in his hand, comes to a halt in the middle of the room and looks around._

JOHN _(without preamble):_ Have you seen my black bag?

SHERLOCK _(looking up from the computer, distractedly)_ : Oh, hello. How was work?

_John deflates. A pained look passes across his face._

SHERLOCK: Sorry, I forgot.

JOHN: Never mind. _(He does mind.)_ And don't you dare ask after _her_ next. _  
_

SHERLOCK _(his eyes returning to the computer, in a bored voice)_ : No, I've just remembered that bit.

_John stands still for a moment. Then he exhales sharply, braces himself and walks over to his side of the dining table._

JOHN _:_ Sherlock, I'm going away for a bit. Have you seen my black bag? The big one?

SHERLOCK _(without looking up)_ : No.

JOHN _(his attention arrested by a couple of official-looking letters lying open on the table):_ And what are these? _(He picks them up. They are clearly bills.)_ Pressing cases?

SHERLOCK: Nope. They're all for you.

JOHN _(annoyed)_ : Oh _,_ thank you. _(He looks around the room again.)_ Anything else? Apart from the very pressing case of the overcrowded kitchen sink?

SHERLOCK _(unruffled)_ : There was a call for you on the landline. A Mr Thomas, solicitor from Carlisle. Said it was urgent.

_Without looking at John, he holds out a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled onto it. Instead of taking it, John holds up his phone._

JOHN. Yeah, I know. He found me, through Harry. That's why I'm going.

SHERLOCK _(looking up from the computer, surprised):_ Going?

JOHN: To Carlisle. I just told you I had to go away for a couple of days.

SHERLOCK: Did you? _(John sighs in annoyance.)_ Why?

JOHN _(sarcastically)_ : Oh, _why?_ Just some pathetic, boring, everyday little family tragedy.

_Sherlock frowns._

JOHN: Just in case you really want to know, I had an aunt, my dad's unmarried half-sister, lived in a posh nursing home in the Lake District, turned eighty-four the day before yesterday, went to bed, never woke up again. Died without leaving a will, apparently, which makes me and Harry not only her next of kin but also her heirs, responsible for her funeral and everything else that comes with passing from this world into the next. Harry lives close, of course, and has been to visit once or twice, so they got in touch with her first, but she's not at her best at the moment and sounds a bit overwhelmed by it all, so I'm going up to sort things out.

SHERLOCK: What, tonight?

JOHN: Yeah, I said so. Last train to Carlisle leaves at 8:35 from Euston. I’ll catch it if I run. _  
_

_Sherlock looks at his watch, grimaces, pushes his chair back from the table and gets up._

SHERLOCK: You said she's dead, John. Why the hurry?

JOHN _(exasperated):_ Because _common decency_ requires -

_Sherlock snorts. John breaks off, annoyed._

SHERLOCK _(disdainfully)_ : Common decency requires a corpse to be refrigerated after death until the lucky heirs take a long enough break from dividing the spoils to dispose of it. I'm sure that's how they do it in Carlisle, too. Why don't you just admit that you're rushing up there head over heels just to stop Harry getting her hands on that inheritance and spending it on her booze rather than on your bills? _  
_

_John gasps, at a loss for words. Sherlock smirks in a humourless way and starts walking across the room towards the kitchen. John grits his teeth._

JOHN: You listen to me.

_Sherlock stops dead and turns around, eyebrows raised._

JOHN _(fighting hard to keep his temper in check):_ I got myself dumped, fired _and_ nearly blown up all in a single week but _(exploding, very loudly)_ I don't see how that gives _you_ the right to be three times as obnoxious as usual!

SHERLOCK _(hotly):_ Well, don't blame it _all_ on me, will you?

JOHN: And which part exactly _wasn't_ your fault?

SHERLOCK: John, sixty-eight percent of all war invalids have trouble holding down a regular job in the first year after discharge, what's it to do with me?

JOHN _(almost shouting)_ : Well, that's a comfort!

SHERLOCK _(scathingly)_ : And if you're worried about getting the bills paid, I remember my brother once offered you money to spy on me. Maybe you should get in touch and see if the offer still stands?

JOHN _(after a moment's pause, deeply hurt)_ : Sherlock, less than three days ago, we were ready to die together in a good cause. I can't believe we're quibbling over _money_ now.

SHERLOCK _(sulkily)_ : I'm not quibbling. You are.

JOHN _(flaring up again)_ : Well, you don't even know what I'm talking about, do you? I suppose if you ever get into really dire straits _you_ could always run back to Mycroft, but I've got nothing and no-one to fall back on, nothing at all. I think I'm entitled to worry about making ends meet, every now and again, just a little!

SHERLOCK _(coldly)_ : And while you're busy worrying, you might as well consider not making the same mistake again.

JOHN: Mistake? What mistake?

SHERLOCK _(losing his patience)_ : Well, there's a simple rule, isn't there?

JOHN _(deliberately pig-headed)_ : What rule?

SHERLOCK _(loudly, as if talking to an idiot):_ It's called “Don't go shagging your boss, it leads to endless complications.” _(John opens his mouth, then closes it again.)_ Sally Donovan sticks to it, Anthea Portman-Jones sticks to it, how come John Watson hasn't even heard of it?

JOHN _(momentarily distracted)_ : Sorry, who?

SHERLOCK _(acidly)_ : Captain John Hamish Watson, MD, the unemployed ex-army doctor with the famously short fuse. He lives upstairs of me, maybe you'll meet him when you go up.

JOHN _(too distracted to rise to the bait)_ : Anthea - someone?

SHERLOCK: Anthea Portman-Jones. _(Impatiently)_ Anthea? Mycroft's PA? You've met her.

JOHN _(a little sheepishly):_ Oh. I didn't think that was her real name.

SHERLOCK _(rolling his eyes)_ :  And incongruous though it may seem, Mycroft is really Mycroft, too, in case you were wondering.

_There is a loud, energetic knock on the jamb of the open door. Sherlock and John simultaneously turn to see who it is. In the doorway stands Mycroft Holmes, three-piece suit, umbrella, briefcase and all, with a singularly insincere smile on his face._

MYCROFT: Good evening. I believe I heard my name mentioned.

SHERLOCK: Just in passing. Nothing personal. _(He pops out the “p” aggressively.)_

MYCROFT _(looking quickly from Sherlock to John and back)_ : I apologise for intruding at an inopportune moment, but you did say that 7:30 would suit you.

SHERLOCK: It suits _me_ admirably. ( _He walks away towards the fireplace, inviting his brother to follow him with a rudely careless gesture of his hand.)_ Alright, sit down, say what you've got to say. _(He flops down in his own armchair and crosses his legs.)_

MYCROFT _(unfazed)_ : Thank you. _(To John)_ Won't you join us?

_John looks back and forth between Mycroft and Sherlock, somewhat overwhelmed, and doesn't answer._

SHERLOCK _(studiously avoiding John's eyes)_ : I wouldn't bother, John. He just wants to know how his precious state secret came to be fished out of the pool at the Atwill-Porter Baths by an unsuspecting janitor yesterday morning, when it was supposed to be safe here. _(To Mycroft, raising his eyebrows)_ Am I right?

MYCROFT: Well, I'm listening.

JOHN _(making up his mind, squaring his shoulders):_ And I've got a train to catch. Sorry.

_Mycroft gives him a politely inquiring look._

JOHN: Urgent family matters. I'm off to Carlisle tonight.

MYCROFT: On the 8:25 from Euston?

SHERLOCK _(smugly, looking pointedly up at the ceiling):_ 8:35 on Fridays, Mycroft.

MYCROFT _(generously)_ : Oh yes, of course.

_John glances at Sherlock, but Sherlock is still not looking at him. By silent consent, the brothers are obviously both waiting for him to leave. John braces himself and stalks out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. A moment later, he can be heard going up the stairs to his bedroom. Mycroft walks over to John's armchair, sits down in it, puts his briefcase and umbrella onto the floor beside it and looks across at his brother with an expectant smile, folding his hands._

MYCROFT: As I said. I'm listening.

 _We cut to **a view of the staircase**_ _, some fifteen minutes later. John is walking back down from his bedroom, now wearing his jacket, carrying a black sports bag in one hand and holding his phone in the other. He walks slowly, his eyes on the screen, typing on it with his thumb. Mycroft's voice floats towards him out of the living room. John looks up, distracted. The door is still open, but Sherlock and Mycroft are both outside John's field of vision. All he can see is part of the carpet and the cluttered dining table beyond._

MYCROFT _(off-screen)_ : … but should you be planning to go rogue again, I must urge you to reconsider. This whole matter is far too big to be handled by one man alone.

SHERLOCK _(off-screen)_ : I'm not alone.

_John stops dead on the second last step and grimaces, clearly touched._

MYCROFT _(off-screen):_ Well, even all the genius of Sherlock Holmes and all the bravery of Doctor Watson combined will not suffice to bring this man down, not to mention all those he controls. We've barely scratched the surface, but what we've unearthed so far is unprecedented both in scale and in quality. To reduce this to a petty feud between two clever men trying to outsmart each other for the sake of it would be a dangerous and probably fatal mistake.

_Mycroft falls silent, and Sherlock doesn't reply. John realises he's been standing still far too long if he doesn't want them to notice that he's eavesdropping. He clears his throat audibly, walks down the last two steps, opens the side door into the kitchen and passes through it without any pretence at secrecy. He heaves his overnight bag up onto the kitchen table._

JOHN _(ostentatiously not looking in the direction of the living-room):_ Just grabbing a bite and some coffee. Don't mind me.

_He switches the kettle on, takes a thermos flask and a Nescafé jar from one of the overhead cupboards, then walks over to the fridge, opens it, glances at the contents, shakes his head and closes it again. Mycroft and Sherlock are still silent. When the kettle begins to boil, Sherlock finally speaks up, barely audible over the steamy hiss._

SHERLOCK: Why would you care?

_John, spooning Nescafé into the thermos flask, glances at his friend, looking unhappy. Then he realises that Sherlock was talking to Mycroft._

MYCROFT: I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about _this._

_A rustle of paper. John gives up pretending not to be listening and straightens up, watching the two men in the living room. Mycroft is holding up a newspaper for Sherlock to see the headline. Standing behind Mycroft, John can't see what it is about._

MYCROFT: And I _care_ because we can't afford headlines of this sort on a weekly basis, Sherlock. Neither you, nor I. You two got away by sheer goddamn luck. These twelve others were not as favoured by fortune.

_Sherlock looks at the newspaper with a frown, then up at John in the kitchen beyond, his expression unreadable. The moment their eyes meet, John looks down. Mycroft drops the newspaper on the coffee table between the two armchairs, picks up his briefcase and umbrella, and stands up._

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock)_ : Think it over. _(He turns towards John, politely)_ And you have a good journey, John. _(With no hint of censure)_ Shouldn't you be on your way soon? Would you like me to give you a lift to the station?

JOHN: Erm, no thanks. I'll be alright, it's not far.

MYCROFT: As you wish.

_He nods curtly to Sherlock and exits the room. A moment later, he can be heard going downstairs. Sherlock exhales audibly, his head tilted back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. John, in the kitchen, fills his thermos flask with boiling water, screws the lid on, puts the flask into his bag and zips it up._

JOHN: Right. Gotta go now.

_Sherlock only nods._

JOHN _(hesitating)_ : Well. _(He clears his throat.)_ I'll be back the day after tomorrow, I think. Monday at the latest.

SHERLOCK _(indifferently)_ : Fine. _(He turns sideways in his chair, stretching out an arm towards the bookshelf, fingering the spines of a row of books as if he's looking for something specific.)_ Bye. _  
_

JOHN: Bye, then.

_With an obvious effort, he turns away, picks up his bag and exits through the kitchen door._


	2. Part 2

_**Euston station.** _ _Night time, but the place is brightly lit and still very busy. Among a number of other travellers, John is walking across the greenish-black flagstones of the concourse, his overnight bag and a small plastic bag from a sandwich shop in one hand. He heads towards the departures board and scans it for his train. He finds the 8:35 to Carlisle. A notice in bright red letters blinking underneath the destination and the departure time reads “DELAYED - 30 mins”. John sighs in annoyance and gets out his phone._

 

 _**221b Baker Street. The living room.** _ _Sherlock is still in his armchair, flicking through a book on his lap, his mind obviously on other things. After a moment, he throws the book down onto the coffee table. The book lands on top of the newspaper that Mycroft left there earlier, covering most of the headline and the picture underneath it so that only “12 Dea- --- -rth Leeds” can still be read. The book on top is entitled “The Dynamics of Combustion”. Sherlock gets up from his chair and starts pacing, now randomly picking up objects from the dining table and dropping them again without looking at them, now gazing out of the window into the night. Outside, it has started to rain. There is a sheen of drizzle on the window, slightly blurring the view of the street below. It appears to be deserted._

 

 _**Euston station.** _ _John has found himself a seat somewhere and has unpacked his sandwiches. He's got started on one of them, but his eyes are on the phone in his other hand, shaking his head as he – probably not for the first time - hits a speed dial but gets no answer. A tannoy announcement rings out through the concourse._

FEMALE COMPUTER VOICE: Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. The 8:35 Virgin service to Carlisle, calling at Warrington Bank Quay, Wigan, Preston, Lancaster, Penrith North Lakes and Carlisle, is currently running approximately 60 minutes late. We apologise for any inconvenience.

_John glances up again at the departures board. The notice underneath his train now blinks “DELAYED - 60 mins”. He rolls his eyes._

 

 _ **221b Baker Street. The living room.** _ _Sherlock is still prowling around the room like a caged animal. The third time he passes the dining table, he stops, squats down and picks up his violin case that has been stowed under it. He lifts it onto the table, opens the lid and takes out the instrument and bow. He tunes very roughly, and launches into what may be the opening bars of the violin part of the Dies Irae from Mozart's Requiem, or maybe just something of his own. As suddenly, he breaks off again, lowering the violin and the bow until his arms hang limply at his sides, staring at the carpet. Then he turns, replaces the bow and runs his free hand pensively along the plushy dark green lining of the case. He hesitates for a moment, then digs two fingers into a gap between the fabric and the casing where the lining is beginning to peel off, and fishes out a miniature white paper envelope, about the size of a large stamp. He pockets it, carefully replaces the violin in the case and closes the lid with a snap._

 

 _ **Euston Station.** _ _John is pacing back and forth in his corner of the concourse, his phone at his ear._

JOHN _(under his breath):_ Come on, Harry, pick it up.

_He turns, and the departures board comes into his view again. He glances at it, then does a double take. The red “DELAYED - 60 mins” notice has been replaced again. It now reads “CANCELLED”. John lowers his phone and groans in frustration. A moment later, another tannoy announcement comes on._

FEMALE COMPUTER VOICE: Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. The delayed 8:35 Virgin service to Carlisle, calling at Warrington Bank Quay, Wigan, Preston, Lancaster, Penrith North Lakes and Carlisle, has been cancelled due to extensive damage to overhead lines caused by severe weather throughout Cumbria and Lancashire. We apologise for any inconvenience.

 

 _ **221b Baker Street. Sherlock's bedroom.** _ _Muted light from the lamp on the bedside cabinet between the bed and the open door. Sherlock has taken off his dressing-gown and his shoes and is sitting cross-legged on his bed. In front of him on top of the sheets is a small tray. On it is the paper envelope we saw earlier, now unfolded to reveal its contents – a little mound of white powder. Next to it on the tray are a tablespoon, a cigarette lighter, a syringe and a needle, the latter two still in their transparent packages, an antiseptic spray, and a rolled-up bright blue tourniquet. All the equipment is scrupulously clean and arranged with rigorous geometrical precision. It looks more like an alignment of surgical instruments in an operating theatre, or like the set-up for a scientific experiment, than like what it really is. Sherlock contemplates the arrangement for a moment with his chin resting on his folded hands. Then, without hurry, he picks up the spoon and the lighter._

 

 _ **Euston station.** _ _John is standing at the information desk on the concourse, talking to the uniformed man sitting behind it. The man types some data into his computer, checks the results on the screen and shakes his head regretfully. John nods resignedly, picks up his bag, turns and walks towards the station exit._

 

  _ **221b Baker Street. Sherlock's bedroom.** _ _In close-up, we see Sherlock's fingers open the package with the needle, take it out, pick up the already unpacked syringe from the tray and attach the needle to it. His movements are very controlled, very systematic, relentless in their calm efficiency._

 

 _ **Inside the back of a cab.** _ _John is being driven through the rainy London night. He's looking out of the car window without really seeing anything, lost in thought. Suddenly his phone rings. He digs it out of his pocket and checks the caller ID._

JOHN _(taking the call):_ Harry, for God's sake! I've been trying to get through to you for hours. Listen – _(He breaks off, instead listening himself. After a pause, impatiently)_ Yes, I know, I know. Listen, I can't make it tonight, my train's been cancelled and there's none til tomorrow, if then. _(Another silence as he listens to the reply.)_ No, heavy weather up north, apparently. Lines damaged. That sort of thing. _(Another silence. Then John frowns in utter confusion.)_ What do you mean, not a breath of air where you are?

 

 _ **221b Baker Street. Sherlock's bedroom.** _ _Sherlock, on his bed, unbuttons the left cuff of his shirt and rolls up the sleeve as far as it will go. He picks up the blue tourniquet, winds it around his bare upper arm and pulls it tight._

 

 _ **Inside the cab.** _ _John, having finished his phone call, is looking out of the window again, his brow furrowed, but now clearly paying attention to where he's going. After a short moment of streetlights flashing past, he leans forward towards the driver._

JOHN: Right, this is it.

_The cab slows down and stops at the kerb._

 

 _ **221b Baker Street. Sherlock's bedroom.** _ _A close-up of the syringe being loaded with a yellowish-brown liquid. Then the hand that holds the syringe tilts it upright. Behind it, Sherlock's face comes into focus, his brows knit, critically checking the level. He hesitates for the shortest of moments, then lowers his hand towards his left forearm, which he has braced on his knee. The point of the needle is inches away from his skin when_ -

JOHN _(off-screen, from the direction of the open door, in a voice of imperturbable calm):_ You're not going to do that with me standing here and looking on, are you?

_Sherlock freezes, his hand with the syringe suspended in mid-air._

SHERLOCK: But you're not here, John. You're on your train to Carlisle.

_We cut to John, who stands in the doorway, still in his jacket, a moist sheen of rain covering his shoulders and his hair, looking down at his friend with an expression that is hard to read. There is no shock in it, in fact little surprise, and certainly no trace of pity. After a moment, Sherlock un-freezes, exhales audibly, lowers his hand, carefully holding the syringe upright so it won't drip, and looks up to meet John's gaze with a strange mixture of defiance and resignation on his face. John crosses his arms and nods towards Sherlock's hand._

JOHN _(slowly, choosing his words with care)_ : So. What exactly is it that you find in there that you can't find anywhere else?

SHERLOCK _(disdainfully)_ : Don't make it sound like a love affair, John. ( _He contemplates the syringe in his hand, turning it this way and that.)_ It's a means to an end. Nothing more. A shortcut.

JOHN _(calmly):_ A shortcut to what?

_Sherlock shrugs._

SHERLOCK: Taking my mind off things.

_John nods in mock-understanding._

JOHN: Oh, of course. Yes. I see.

_He walks over to the bed and sits down at its end, on the very edge of the mattress, then leans forward, capturing Sherlock's gaze and holding it unflinchingly for close on half a minute. When he speaks, his voice is low but resolute, almost stern._

JOHN: You give me one reason, one compelling, irrefutable, unchallengeable reason why you _need_ to do this, and I promise you, I will walk away and let you.

SHERLOCK _(with a wry smile)_ : You're very sure of your case.

JOHN _(standing his ground)_ : Are you?

_With a sigh, Sherlock puts the syringe down on the tray in front of him and folds his hands in his lap. He seems to be looking inward, a range of expressions passing across his face, from cynical to wistful, from wistful to pained, and hence, after a moment of an intense struggle that shows nowhere but in his eyes, to absolutely bleak. John is watching him from his place at the foot of the bed. He waits until Sherlock's face is entirely still again, then straightens up._

JOHN: Alright. Sorry, I win.

_He leans across, reaches up to Sherlock's left arm, loosens the tourniquet, lets it slide it down to Sherlock's wrist as if to take it off, then quick as lightning slips the loop over Sherlock's right hand as well and - not exactly gently - jerks it tight again, effectively tying Sherlock's hands together._

JOHN: Now excuse me for a moment. I need to flush something down the loo.

_He picks up the tray, gets up from the bed and without a single backward glance walks off into the bathroom._

 

 _**221b Baker Street. The bathroom,** _ _brightly lit. John drops the tray and everything on it into the washbasin with a clatter. He picks up the syringe and breaks off the needle with an expert twist. His movements are precise but a little jerky, his anger showing through. He rolls the needle into a thick wad of toilet paper and bins it. Next, he empties the contents of the syringe into the toilet bowl and flushes them down, then pulls the syringe apart and twists the plastic pieces in his fingers, too, until they are useless. They, the opened packages and the cigarette lighter join the needle in the bin. With the spoon in his hand, John hesitates, but then turns it over and looks at the underside, where it is blackened with soot. John grimaces in disgust and throws it into the bin, too. Then he turns the tap on and begins to wash his hands, rubbing them vigorously together._

 

 _ **221b Baker Street. Sherlock's bedroom.** _ _Sherlock is still sitting on his bed. He has moved backwards against the bed-head, the back of his head leaning against the wall above it, his legs drawn up and his forearms propped on his knees. His hands are still tied together with the blue strap of the tourniquet, and his eyes are closed. There is a sound of approaching footsteps, and Sherlock turns his head and opens his eyes just as John reappears in the doorway. There is a moment of silence while they look at each other. John is standing very still, his arms hanging at his sides. In Sherlock's face, the eyes are the only things that seem alive, beautifully desperate and desperately beautiful._

SHERLOCK _(tonelessly):_ So, what now?

JOHN _(squaring his shoulders)_ : Now? Now you can lie down and sleep.

_Sherlock doesn't move._

JOHN: C'mon. I'm waiting.

_Sherlock holds out his bound hands to him in a wordless plea._

JOHN _(coolly):_ I don't think so.

_Sherlock gives him an exasperated look, then without another word slumps down on his side and curls up, facing away from John. John sighs, then sits down on the other side of the bed, his shoulders against the bed-head, crosses his ankles and settles down to his watch._

 

 _ **221b Baker Street. Sherlock's bedroom.** _ _Grey morning light filtering in through the blinds. Seen from above, Sherlock and John are lying next to each other on the bed. Sherlock is still curled up on his side. He seems to be deeply and peacefully asleep, the strap of the tourniquet still in a loose circle around his wrists. John, on the other side of the bed, is on his back, also still in last night's clothes, one hand behind his head, the other extended towards his friend, almost but not quite touching. His eyes are closed, too. After a moment, the silence in the room is broken by the muted beep of a text alert on a phone. John opens his eyes, blinks a couple of times, then rolls over and takes his phone out of his jacket on the floor by the bed. He hits a button and frowns blearily, trying to focus on the message that has appeared on the screen. It reads:_

John – thank you for your cooperation. Trains to the north-west will return to schedule at 8:00 a. m. Should he still be asleep, please check his sock drawer, the binding of the Thai Cuisine cookbook on the top shelf in the kitchen and the lining of his violin case before you leave. Mycroft

_John runs his hand over his face and shakes his head in disbelief._

_On the other side of the bed, in close-up, eyes still tightly shut, Sherlock smiles a wry little smile._

 

_THE END_

_October 2014_

 


End file.
